


Ice Blue

by StarsAndStitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Iceland, M/M, Short One Shot, for BrynTWedge's birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches
Summary: It's Greg's birthday, and he's not in a good mood. Mycroft is out of country and Greg's missing him dearly. To his surprise, he finds himself whisked away to a land of wonder and strange beauty.





	Ice Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrynTWedge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/gifts).



> This is a little something to celebrate the birthday of the fabulous writer and artist BrynTWedge! Many happy returns, my dragon friend! <3
> 
> And a big hug and thank you for my invaluable [TheSoupDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon) for the ultra-fast beta-reading! And the much improved punch line at the end. <3

Right. The message had been cryptic enough.

**Received 8:43 am** : _Good morning, Inspector! Your company is requested. Please be ready at 3 pm. Bring your passport and warm clothing. A_

And just a minute later a sequel had arrived.

**Received 8:44 am** : _PS: Many happy returns! A_

Greg didn't feel happy, though. Turning fifty-one should not get to him like that, but it did. It was not the figure per se, he told himself, but that nagging empty feeling in his chest. His lover for four years had had to leave the country for a few days to go God-knows-where, and their bed had never felt so cold and deserted. Sure, Mycroft had called this morning and they had spent a few precious minutes basking in their love together. But once the call had ended the loneliness had returned in full force.

Everybody was being _nice_ to Greg, of course. His co-workers at the Yard had tried to surprise him with a sea of colourful balloons, and a big home-baked cake sat on his desk now, spelling out 'Happy Birthday, Gov!' in bright sugary letters. (Which made him feel Myke's absence even more.) His sister had invited the two of them over for dinner as soon as Mycroft would be back in town. John Watson had sent him a silly picture with the best wishes from everyone at Baker Street asking him out for a pint some time soon. The inbox on his phone had been flooded with cheery messages from his mum, Molly, his football mates... All things considered, Greg Lestrade had every reason to believe he was a well-liked guy. 

And yet... he was miserable.

So it was no wonder that he was indeed ready at 3 pm, a small holdall in his hand, to be whisked away by the inscrutable Anthea to a yet undisclosed destination just to escape his low spirits. One of Mycroft's black limousines stopped at the kerb, and Greg got in without hesitation.

“Afternoon, Colin!” he greeted the driver. No Anthea, though. He was the only passenger. Greg had to swallow down the ridiculous spark of hope that by some inexplicable miracle Myke had managed to... “Where're we going today?”

“Can't say, sir,” Colin replied and the car took them out of London, through the suburbs, ending at a small airfield Greg had never been to before. A single aircraft stood on the runway, obviously waiting for him. Everything breathed 'private' and 'discreet' so loudly that Greg had to fight the urge to scream. He gripped the handle of his bag a tad tighter. _Christ!_ he thought, _what've I got myself into?_ Wouldn't be the first time for someone vanishing without a trace.

When he noticed Anthea standing at the foot of the stairs to the plane's cabin, his anxiety loosened and he stepped out of the car. Trying to project more confidence than he actually felt, Greg strode over to Mycroft's assistant, aiming at nonchalance. “Hi Anthea! Fine day for a trip, eh?”

She looked up from her phone, nodded and congratulated him again. Out of nowhere a faceless official appeared at her side and checked Greg's passport perfunctorily. “Shall we board then?” Anthea asked politely pointing up the stairs. As he climbed up the steps Greg's stomach twisted uncomfortably. He wasn't sure whether the clacking of Anthea's heels on the metal stairs behind him was reassuring or threatening.

A too cheerful young steward welcomed them on board and fussed over them a lot.

“So...” Greg tried again after having fastened his seat belt. “What is all this? Where're we going?” His bright smile, usually an infallible weapon, felt strained on his face.

Anthea who sat across the aisle from him looked at him for a long moment. “Unfortunately I'm not at liberty to say, Detective Inspector.” And then there was that tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth that told him this was still the woman he knew – or thought he knew – and trusted for years. “It's supposed to be a surprise, Greg. He thinks you'll like it.” No need to elaborate who 'he' was.

“Aaah,” Greg replied. “Right.” He leaned back, relaxing in his seat as the plane taxied for take-off. If Anthea chose to call him by his first name as usual, there was probably no sinister scheme in action. Just the Holmesian penchant for drama and mystery. Greg grinned to himself. “And this here?” he gestured around the cabin.

“Oh, this. A private little airline Mr. Holmes likes to hire for special occasions like this. Don't worry, no tax payers' money is wasted on our little outing.” she smirked.

Once they were airborne the eager steward reappeared and asked about their wishes. It was a cappuccino for Anthea and a double coffee for Greg.

“Would you at least tell me which country?” he asked again. “Like to be prepared for Siberia.”

“Nope,” she refused. And with a smile she added, “rest assured, we'll be there in time for dinner. Enjoy your flight, Greg!” With a flick of her head she let her luscious hair fall over the side of her face, hiding from his view.

Greg understood, a curtain. He was not going to get any more information from Myke's assistant right now. So he settled in his seat and looked out of the window as the English landscape drifted away below them. 'Soon!' a joyful voice whispered in his mind. Every minute he spent here in the small aircraft in the company of the tight-tongued lady of mystery would bring him closer to where _he_ was. His lover, his partner, the joy of his life. And with that happy thought he let his eyes fall shut and a blissful smile creep on his face, not noticing the pleased glances Anthea shot his way.

* * *

“ _Iceland???!_ ” Greg's eyes went wide with surprise. After a few hour's flight their plane had touched down on what seemed to be a barren strip of land under a dusky evening sky.

Anthea nodded. “Um-hm. I trust you brought a warm coat.”

“Yeah, of course.” He managed to overcome his astonishment. “And... Mycroft's here?”

“A short trip by car,” the woman confirmed. “I believe he awaits you with some measure of impatience now.”

Well, then. Greg wrapped himself up in his winter jacket and followed Anthea out of the small aircraft. The young steward saw them off with a cheery smile and the emphatic expectation to see them aboard again soon.

A wide treeless plain stretched out as far as Greg's eyes could see. He paused at the top of the stairs and drew a deep breath. Evening was falling, and though the landscape might look dull at first sight, it was bristling with an austere beauty that cleansed his soul as the rough chilly wind tousled his hair. _Something_ or rather _someone_ wonderful was waiting here for him, of that he was sure. And when he descended down to the waiting jeep that would take Anthea and himself to the man he longed to see, anticipation began to simmer in Greg's veins, the invisible eyes of eon-old creatures watching him with benevolent smiles.

As promised, the car ride didn't take long, and as the jeep rumbled along over uneven roads under the darkening pewter sky, Greg felt his everyday life fade more and more, getting irrelevant to the point of non-existence. The stark rocky landscape was so utterly different from what he was used to in London that he might as well have stepped into a land of archaic fairy tales. Before long, the car drove up to a lonely two-storey building that appeared to be a holiday venue of some sorts.

Greg got off a bit reluctantly, clutching his bag and looking up at the cobblestone house.

“He'll be on the terrace,” Anthea said softly, “you can walk right up.” And she indicated a narrow footpath running along the side of the house. “Have a wonderful evening, Greg!” A mischievous wink in his direction, and she headed to the front entrance.

When Greg rounded the building he actually found a small terrace at the rear, shielded from the prevailing wind by a stone wall at the side. Half a dozen of brass braziers were placed on the paved place bathing it in a deep russet light and spreading a comfortable warmth. In the middle there was a dinner table for two, already laid out with fine china and glass ware and a single candle burning. And most importantly – there was _he._ Standing at a low wall at the open side of the terrace, looking out over a sprawling _fjäll_ and a small lake to a low mountain range in the distance.

Greg was rooted to the spot, the bag dropped from his hand. His lover has turned to stand in profile, tall and straight as ever. And stunningly beautiful. The charcoal fires in the braziers conjured up coppery highlights in his hair, the warm light played softly over his pale skin. Mycroft had foregone his suit jacket, cutting a striking slender figure in just his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat in the most vibrant light blue Greg had ever seen him wearing.

For a minute or two Greg couldn't do anything else than stare at him as he pretended to be lost in thought looking out at the almost dark landscape and unaware of his admirer. And then Mycroft turned, slowly and lithely like a cat. The candlelight gleamed on the silky fabric of his waistcoat, turning it into the bejewelled hide of some mythical being. Greg gasped. Was this otherworldly beauty actually his Myke?

“Gregory,” Mycroft's smooth voice broke the spell. “ _Mon cœur._ ” And he glided towards his visitor.

Greg swallowed. “My-”. The blue waistcoat brought out Myke's eyes as they were reflecting the low lights. There was a fiery gleam in them, something predatory that made Greg's head spin with sudden desire. This gorgeous magical creature was moving towards him, beautiful and dangerous, possessive, smart and passionate, ageless as ice and young as fire – and all _his!_ And Greg lunged forward and grabbed Mycroft's face between his hands, unable and unwilling to hold back any longer, kissing him fiercely.

Mycroft's lips were warm and familiar, and Greg melted into the kiss at once. Long-fingered hands sneaked under his jacket and encircled his waist, then stroked his sides. When they parted at last, Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft's back and dropped his head onto his lover's shoulder. “Oh, you crazy bastard!” he mumbled happily. This birthday was turning out so much better now.

“Only the best for you, darling,” cooed Mycroft in his ear and pressed a tender kiss onto his hair. “If you kindly take a look...”

Greg lifted his head and looked up. Mycroft wrapped his left arm tightly around him pulling him close. His other arm swept in a wide arc across the now completely dark sky. The first stars had come out, crisp and clear like diamonds. With every blink of the eye they seemed to multiply as if on cue to adorn the canopy above a happy couple. A broad ragged band of diffuse light stretched from one end of the firmament to the other, a brilliant sash of tiny jewels.

“Wow!” breathed Greg, overwhelmed. “Is that... the Milky Way?” He definitely hadn't seen a night sky like this for ages.

“It is,” confirmed Mycroft smoothly, “and if we're lucky we might even have the pleasure to watch some aurora borealis tonight.” And at Greg's questioning look he explained, “northern lights.”

Greg laughed and jerked his chin upward. “Bet you arranged all of this just for my birthday, sweetheart, didn't yer?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied with a smug smile. “As I said, only the best for you.”

Feeling the warm firm body pressing into his side and seeing the wonders of the night, Greg couldn't be happier. He chuckled again and shook his head in affection.

When he glanced at his lover again, Greg noticed that the smug confidence had vanished. Instead Mycroft had tensed in his arms, and a small square box had appeared in his right hand which hadn't been there a moment ago.

Greg gasped. “Myke?”

“Gregory,” Mycroft's voice was suddenly tight, “there is something I've been meaning to...” He swallowed, faltering.

“Yes!” exclaimed Greg, “yes, yes! A thousand times yes!” And he laughed again. “Of course, I'll marry you!”

“You will?” Mycroft enquired, eyes wide, dithering between delight and disbelief.

Instead of an answer, Greg cupped his cheeks again, tender this time, and pulled him in for another kiss.

For a long time no word was spoken on the terrace, as the darkness grew deeper and richer.

“Dinner?” Mycroft whispered at last into Greg's hair.

“Thought you'd never ask. Come on then, fiancé,” replied Greg, “I'm starvin'!”

[The end]

**Author's Note:**

> I've never been to Iceland myself so I possibly got it all wrong. Apologies!


End file.
